


catching signals that sound in the dark

by Frival



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Revolution, Angst, Brotherly Affection, Brothers America & England (Hetalia), England Being a Jerk (Hetalia), Historical References, Memories, Mentioned France (Hetalia), Mentions of War, Other, Sad and Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frival/pseuds/Frival
Summary: england remembers those years and he's glad he does
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	catching signals that sound in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> this is a rewrite of my first published work on ao3, because it needed it

England remembers the first time they met, the memory so vivid and fresh in his mind that it ought to have happened yesterday. He remembers a child--young, no older than five-- and those big blue eyes. He remembers how brightly the child shined; he was the embodiment of all of Europe’s dreams. It was almost overwhelming, the pure unadulterated potential that the boy carried on his shoulders. England remembers the extravagant feeling of having something-- _someone-- to care for._ A chance to try again, to be a part of something he knew would turn the world on its heels one day.

There was a day, one that stuck out more than the rest. England had been left for home, gone for months, and leaving the now seven-year-old alone with a small family in Jamestown. When he returned there was very little left of the settlement; everything was dead and gray and the ground itself seemed to weep. But, despite the misery and famine around him, the boy still glowed. He hugged his older brother’s legs tightly, grinning and tears forming at the corners of those eyes. 

“I missed you!” he cried. 

England remembers the warmth that filled every part of his being and the realization that he _never_ wanted any harm to come to this boy-- his _little brother_ \-- hitting him like a stone to the head. That’s when he decided to finally give this boy a name. 

* * *

The following years afterward proceeded the same, with England leaving frequently for varying periods of time. Each time he returned Alfred was just a little bit taller. 

“Arthur, will you be staying this time?” the ten-year-old asked one summer. 

England shook his head, paying close attention to not prick his finger with the cross-stitch needle. “Not this time, Al. There, finish your porridge.” 

“But it tastes gross!” Alfred stuck his tongue out and scrunched his face at the bowl. He pushed it away. “Can’t Francis come and-”

“ _Absolutely_ not!” England raised his voice. Alfred sunk in his wooden chair. “Would you stop asking that? That Frog has no business anywhere near this land, you hear?” 

“I hear,” the child muttered. England returned to his cross-stitching, not noticing the developing nation excusing himself from the table. 

* * *

The “No France Allowed” rule would become much more relevant in the following century.

“Alfred,” England gripped the young teen by the shoulders. “You are _not_ to fight, understand? Don’t you dare go anywhere near a musket!” England’s voice was stern and probably louder than it should have been. 

Alfred nodded, eyes wide and watering and _scared_ . England pulled him into a tight embrace. “I am trying to protect you, okay? Francis-- _France_ ,” he corrected, “will not hesitate to hurt you.”

Alfred opened and closed his mouth, conflicted features contorting with confusion. “No, Arthur, he said he’d never-- that he’d never think about hurting me!”

England’s heart lurched into his throat. “He would, he would because he knows it would hurt _me_.” 

“I don’t understand,” Alfred sobbed and England, for the first time, realized that he had no fucking idea what he was doing raising a child. 

* * *

England _hated_ America for this, so, so much. It was unbearable, how completely and utterly betrayed he felt. Rage and disgust sat heavy in his stomach, directed at himself and the man on the other side of the ocean. He glared at the paper sitting at the table. 

“ _We hold these truths to be self-evident…_ ”

England laughed lowly, how bloody fucking _hilarious_ that was. After all this time, everything he’s done and given up for America, and he just _leaves_! 

“This must be a joke,” He had said when the King had presented him with the declaration earlier that day. He had gotten a slap in response.

And now, here he was, livid tears falling softly onto the wooden table he had brought home from the colonies, joining the blurry memories of terribly cooked porridge. 

“ _Goddammit_ !” he slammed a fist onto the table. America was an idiot, a thick-headed idiot, a poor excuse of a _country_ \-- he felt like vomiting. 

* * *

England remembers the first time they met on the battlefield as enemies, more of a dream than a memory now. He remembers seeing a child-- no, a _man_ \-- staring at him with narrowed sharp blue eyes. He remembers how even then, Alfred shined. He had become everything that England was, and more, and the endless possibilities of newfound potential hidden in the barrels of muskets. All of Europe’s hopes and dreams laid abandoned in the mud on his boots.

Even now, two centuries later, full of countless wars and political escapades, England still remembers what it felt like to have a little brother. 

**Author's Note:**

> the song that inspired this was, of course, two headed boy - neutral milk hotel


End file.
